I Don't Have An Excuse. I'm THAT Bitchy.

Last year around this time, I managed to embarrass myself full tilt when I blogged about my adventures in swimsuit shopping.  I truly believe there are clothing Gods out there that sit back in their thrones or whatever they sit in and chortle down at you when you are both vertically and horizontally challenged.  “Oh, look at the chubby girl trying to look cute in a swimsuit.  Hey lady! You need boobs for that!” 

I spent my summer – when activities involved pools or public appearances – in running shorts. 

This last weekend, I went sundress shopping with Mr. Fricken Awesome.  Mind you, the last time I wore any kind of dress was at my soon-to-be sister in law’s wedding.  The image was similar to some child’s horrible vision of what a giant lime with flabby arms would look like.

When we went dress shopping for the wedding, the size I needed didn’t fit.  It was too big. Yay.  I usually have that problem with bras.  So I had to buy the next size down. Because it was so close to the wedding, I am a cheap ass and didn’t want to pay to have it altered.  The size I bought, I couldn’t zip up.  So my brilliant ass told my girlfriend “No worries, I have 3 months, it’ll zip right up!”

Fast forward to week of wedding.

In the 3 months I had, I spent every-single-day working out.  Nothing but cardio.  As hard as I could push my un-athletic body to go.  All my clothes were starting to loosen up, my waist was getting smaller, the boobs were almost completely gone and my milkshake was bringing all the boys to the yard. 

Two days before wedding. 

Dress doesn’t zip up.  Panic sets in.  I go to some sex boutique and buy the most expensive tummy sucker I can find.  So, not only can I not breathe, but I look good doing it.  Until I looked down and saw that some of my stomach had accidentally fallen out of the bottom of bustier.  Funny?  I didn’t know it could do that.

Day of wedding.

Tummy sucker is on.  Breathing is overrated.  Dress comes on.  Dress still not zipping too well. Ok. I won’t bend or breathe.  Check.  I turn to look in mirror and you know when you have a visual of what you think something should look like?  Well, with my new tummy tucker and my minor weight loss, I was absolutely convinced that despite the fact that I couldn’t breathe, I looked way better than the bride.  Totally. 

Ok, if giant limes with flabby arms and squishy flat boobs is hot, then, yeah, totally killing it. 

My boobs had totally disappeared at this point, I couldn’t put my arms down for fear that the weight of the flab would somehow dislodge the zipper and my dress would fall off.  So yes, I walked around looking like I was going to jump into some Irish dance at any given moment.  “Hi! Nice to see you! No, I quite enjoy holding my arms at a ninety degree angle…” 

THAT, was my last time in a dress.

This last weekend.  My birthday.  Mr. Fricken Awesome decides to take me sundress shopping.  I’m worried about the cinder blocks I have for legs as well as the inability to fill the top part up.  He tells me, “Honey, sundresses are just like cute ‘moo-moo’s.”  Oh! Good.  I feel better.  I’ll be a cute flat-chested fat girl. 

Moving on.

Sooooo many cute dresses!  I wanted them all.  I picked about 6 or 7 to try on and journeyed into the dressing room. 

Note:  Here are the things you should be aware of when sundress shopping; A) They are not “one size fits all” B) ‘Large’ doesn’t really mean ‘Large’, it means Large for small people and by small people we mean 10 or 12 year olds – even though you took it off of the rack in the adult section. C) Don’t try on material that clings if you are susceptible to saddlebags.

We left.  I cried.  Mr. Fricken Awesome did everything but tap dance on top of the vehicle to try to cheer me up. 

I ultimately settled on a sundress from a different, more fatty friendly store. Got it home, tried it on (again) and (in comparison to the department store dresses I tried on) somehow I went from looking like a smeared shade of pale wearing a slinky to  Spongebob Square Pants’ long lost sister. 

It all comes back to the boobs. 

Low cut dress + NFL Fullback shoulders + disappearing boobs = a major temper tantrum. 

Dress came off.  T-shirt and safety sweats came on and now I’m forced to face the fact that my diet of coffee and the occasional meal has done nothing for my girlish figure.  I’m not skinny.  I’m THIRTY FUCKING FOUR!  When you spend most of your time wearing clothes that have elastic waist-bands, you completely miss the part where your stomach and hips expand, until it’s too late.

Reality is, I don’t “do” cute.  I do comfortable.  I’ve fallen off of the healthy wagon and have now been bitten by the “Hello! You’re Not 23 Anymore” fairy.  (Who, by the way, is a real bitch.)

Sometimes I just need to release about girl stuff.  And by “girl stuff” I mean: the never-ending saga of “Does This Make Me Look Fat”?  It’s the age-old question that is automatically instilled into the female brain upon arrival into this world. 

Men have no chance of ever saying the right thing.  It’s a ‘catch-22’ question.  If they say “No” – they’re lying!  If they say, “Yes” they’re fucked. 

Don’t even sit there and say, “I don’t know what you are talking about, I’m totally tuned into my body and I love every part of me.”  I’m sure you do sweetie.  That’s why you pay your therapist shit tons of money so he or she can tell you what to say when you are in denial. 

So why am I tripping?  Because I get tired of always feeling “fat”. (She says with a whiny voice and a foot stomp)  I use that term loosely.  Everyone has ‘fat days’.  Us women mostly point the finger to PMS, bloating, water retention or whatever.  Whatever we need to tell ourselves right?  Thing is, we are never happy.  I can admit that.  I can remember being a size 2 when my son was three and STILL convinced I could stand to lose a few pounds.  Now I’d give my eyeteeth to be able to fit my big toe into the leg of the size 2’s that I once wore. 

So here we are.  Eight years later, totally comfortable with Mr. Fricken Awesome.  Fully aware of my son’s love for me regardless if I’m a 2 or a 20, and I’ve just recently come to the realization that being in your thirties is so not the party I envisioned. 

What brought all this on?  Where is this ‘Negative Nancy’ attitude coming from?  It’s largely due to the fact that I truly think department stores should make mannequins less offensive.  I would be way less disgusted at the clothing (and of their man-made figure) if I saw the plastic model with a muffin top and some juicy thighs going on.  I would be more inclined to believe that the cute little purple halter top thingy that looks so fricken adorable on ‘Plastic Patty’ would somehow bare some resemblance on me.  However Patty is size negative 3 and I’m not, so I find it a bit ridiculous that I could even remotely pull it off and when I attempt to; and have to call in reinforcements to help me get the damn garment off – I tend to get a bit creepy about the whole situation.  Fuck you Patty! And your plastic boobs! 

Just sayin’.

Where was I?  Sundress…doesn’t fit … giant lime … Patty’s a bitch … – oh yes I remember, Happy 4^th Everyone! 

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